


Five Times They Could Have Confessed and One Time They Didn't Have To

by fortheloveofhawke



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Mutually Unrequited, Purple-Red Hawke (Dragon Age), Red Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:21:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveofhawke/pseuds/fortheloveofhawke
Summary: Hawke and Varric are just two friends who can't stop thinking about the other as more than that.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3HobbitsInATrenchcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat/gifts).



> I combined a bit from a few prompt ideas together and ended up with a 5+1. I'm such a sucker for, "Yep we're just pals, OOPS FEELINGS," so the freedom in prompts was a delight, and I hope I did your idea of Marian justice.

The night reached the point where time did funny things; it had flown, then slowed down somewhere in the middle. The Hanged Man had emptied out aside from the regulars asleep at the bar and the talkative man making his aimless rounds. And, of course, Varric and Hawke. 

Wicked Grace came to a close hours ago and Hawke stayed to talk about the expedition, urging her brother out to rest at home; she'd be right along. Three hours had passed since then. She sat beside Varric, finally at the stage where the pretense and the responsibility faded, and the exhaustion came through. There was little left to irritate her, and some days it seemed so constant he wondered how she managed to resist murdering everyone.

“Hawke,” he said, interrupting an hour long silence. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

“Are you kicking me out?” 

Did she snap the words or was that just her tone? Varric still couldn't tell the difference.

“Not at all. Just don't want Junior and your mother to worry.”

She scoffed and waved dismissively. 

“They're fine. I'm fine.” She paused, caught his look. “I'm _fine_. Not lying this time.”

“Oh? Does that mean you were lying earlier today when I asked?”

“Weren't you lying yesterday about being fine after we spoke to Bartrand?”

Touché. It could have been a shot at him, but the lilt of her lips and the glint in her eyes, more awake that he expected, indicated she was, in fact, teasing him. 

Varric admired her and had since the first moment he'd laid eyes on her. The tenacity she exuded, the pure refusal to accept the bullshit that permeated this city—even though Varric could only afford his lifestyle _because_ he accepted the city's bullshit. She was the closest thing Varric had seen to a fictional heroine come to life. He couldn't help but stare now, certainly not seeing her for the first time, but maybe seeing _her_ for the first time. Marian. The woman beneath the facade and the responsibility and the frustration.

And Varric liked what he saw.

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from telling her that. No foolishness. He crushed the first thought that came to mind, couldn't bring himself to complicate an already complicated partnership with anything as trite as, well. It wasn't worth humoring.


	2. Chapter 2

The fury she felt at Bartrand and the city that drove them to make this choice paled in comparison to what she felt for herself. Her mother's words echoed in her mind and the guilt did not take its time following. Carver's back faded out of view, supported by Stroud and another Warden, and Hawke turned, avoiding Varric and Anders to continue down the dark path that brought them here. 

“Brothers, am I right?” Varric rasped, voice rusty with disuse and dehydration. 

“Varric,” she warned.

“Yeah, my bad. Laugh or cry, you know.”

She practiced her breathing, trying to picture her anger as a cloud that she could exhale, as her father had tried to teach her.

 _You feel things so strongly, Pup,_ he had said _. It doesn't build your own power. It only gives that power to others._

Fat lot that had done for her.

Hawke's anger wasn't for Varric. She wanted to direct it at someone—anyone other than herself—but Varric hadn't gotten them trapped down here, and Anders had potentially saved her brother's life. Which left only her. 

She forced all the air in her lungs out. 

“Laugh or cry,” she said, trying out the words for herself. “Neither are going to help.”

“True. But they won’t hurt, either.” He leaned his shoulder into her arm, contact that nearly made her jump. “I'm just as angry at myself for this, but it's not going to do anything except use up more air.”

Hawke stilled. 

“Why are you angry at yourself?”

“For Bartrand. For not seeing this coming. For you and Junior.”

She swallowed. For once the burden felt lifted enough to breathe, and she knew which part of 'laugh or cry' she leaned toward. When was the last time someone had shared the weight? 

In her periphery, Varric stared down the tunnel they needed to take. She wondered how he balanced his anger enough to find humor amongst so much shit. She wondered if being around him could help her with that. This was certainly beyond the realm of business partners, and the thought of more than that—much more—crossed her mind.

Hawke jolted herself into movement, unable to wrap her head around the plethora of feelings and unwilling to consider anything other than escaping and seeing the sky again.


	3. Chapter 3

It was either a miracle or pure dumb luck that Hawke hadn’t been gutted by the Arishok’s blade. A clumsy dodge had gotten her mostly out of the way, but not enough to avoid a deep slice at her waist. Better than being skewered, but only by a hand’s width. Had the duel become any more desperate, Hawke’s final idea had been one her father had warned her against since her magic surfaced. The gauntlets of her armor certainly wouldn’t have made it difficult, and she liked to think that every other mage looked into it just in case.

Her opening had come just as she let the point of one gauntlet puncture her skin. There hadn’t even been a need to start drawing on that power when the Arishok pulled his sword back parallel to the floor, giving her a chance to lunge forward with her bladed staff, a fire spell burning through the very last dregs of her mana (and maybe just a touch of her blood). She sidestepped his thrust, taking the slice to her side while skewering him on her own blade, the fire spreading upward and across his body after contact.

The rest had been a blur as the blood loss worsened and her energy went into attempting to distract the Knight-Commander. Then she was in the street, half dragged and half stumbling, then her stairs, and finally her bed. Flashes of blue light and various potions being shoved down her throat became all she was aware of. How ever much time had passed, she came to seeing Anders puttering around. Then her friends had come and gone and come again, save for one.

Hawke stewed in impatience and loneliness, and shame for both. Anders was too attentive, and she suspected telepathic powers after the fourth time she attempted to sneak out of bed, only for him to come in at the exact moment she couldn’t hide her intentions.

And still Varric hadn’t come. He had been there, she was told, during her day-long coma while Anders did what he had to, but she hadn’t seen him since the throne room. It bothered her more than she wanted, and for reasons she couldn’t put into words.

After another few hours of doing absolutely nothing and feeling her blood pressure rise, someone knocked on her door.

“Whoever you are," she yelled, “you’d better be helping me escape.”

Varric peeked his head in.

“I’m afraid Blondie is more of a threat right now than you, so I’ll have to decline.”

Frustration and affection in equal measure fought her temper.

“You don’t visit me for days, and then give me that bullshit. Why bother coming?”

“Figured you had enough people fawning over you and it was better to let you rest. Thought you’d be irritated with the well-wishers.”

He was right. Other than Anders, their friends had been walking on eggshells around her, likely humbled by the knowledge that their leader could, in fact, be felled.

“I also wanted to see how the rumors developed. You know what they’re saying?”

Hawke rolled her eyes and gestured broadly to her bed.

“Of course I do, tied to my bed as I am.”

Varric’s grin remained unflappable as he approached to stand at her bedside, hip against her nightstand.

“I’m building suspense, Hawke,” he said. “They’re saying you gave a rousing speech in defense of the city, and the flames from the sconces rose in Kirkwall’s defense at your words.”

Hawke snorted. “Ridiculous.”

“Isn’t it, though? Better than the tales of blood magic I was expecting, honestly. Meredith seems none the wiser.”

Hawke’s mood took another downturn.

“Such bullshit,” she griped. “ _Champion_. What an inane title for the idiot who got baited into a duel with the Arishok. If I’d known this would happen, I wouldn’t have left home.”

“Might not have had it for very long if you had,” he said with maddening calm. Anyone else would have sounded patronizing. “The title is bullshit, yes, but you’re a bonafide hero, Hawke. Kirkwall would be under the Qun by now if you hadn’t pulled that off.”

“The Guard would have handled it.”

“I’m not sure about that—uh, don’t tell Aveline I said that.”

Hawke cracked her first smile since he’d arrived; tried and failed to get rid of it.

“It’s just a lot of responsibility,” she said after some time. “I don’t want to… it’s just a lot.”

“Looking at the rest of the leadership in this city, I don’t think you could prove it a mistake if you tried. I mean, maybe it’s too soon, but Dumar’s lack of leadership bit him in the ass more than anything.”

“Or the neck, rather.”

Varric laughed, and her smile widened. She felt better. Not her torso, perhaps, but the rest. The frustration at not seeing him after waking up began to make sense, and she wasn’t sure it was a relief. People didn’t miss friends like that and feel irreparably pissed because of it for as long as she had. Varric balanced her out in a way that made all the bullshit bearable, and there were only a few words for what that was.

“Interested in the other rumors out there?” he asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

She rolled her eyes in pseudo-exasperation and took private joy in spending more time in his company.

“If you must.”


	4. Chapter 4

The streets of Lowtown were quiet at this time of night. Hawke and Varric left the Hanged Man to escape the stifling warmth from the hearths, pleasantly drunk and merry. 

Varric couldn't recall half of what they talked about if his life depended on it, but he basked in the feeling that the city was theirs for the night. Seeing Hawke with her guard down like this was enough to please him, especially with the private thought that she only did this with him. 

He must have said something funny, because Hawke laughed and elbowed him, so he elbowed her back and they stumbled down the street like that until he found her hand tucked in his elbow.

They reached the stairs to the docks and looked out over the glimpse of the sea, still as glass. 

“Well, Hawke. We should get you back where you belong. “

“What's that supposed to mean? “

“I mean it's a long walk back.”

She scoffed. “I belong where I want, Varric.”

He looked up at her to see, what he believed to be, a meaningful look. With stars haloed above her head and the street empty, time seemed to stop. Varric knew what he'd seen for the first time years ago in the firelit glow of the Hanged Man wasn't just a fleeting fancy. He was in love with Hawke. 

It wasn’t particularly revolutionary on its own; people fell in love all the time. But this was Hawke, his best friend. Hawke, whose temper was infamous. The worst thing he could imagine was telling her and instead of anger, receiving her pity. Varric shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought and finding it impossible.

In his panic, he’d begun to pull his arm away from her, but Hawke impatiently replaced her hand and gestured him down the stairs toward the piers. Varric would have been grateful for the direction if it weren’t coming from the source of his anxiety.

But even an impatient Hawke was still Hawke, and she demanded attention with just her presence. Varric comforted himself that, were this the time to make such declarations, he had lost his chance once she stepped out of her halo.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke threw the door to Varric's suite open, taking satisfaction in the sound of it slamming into the wall and bouncing back to close behind her. To his credit, Varric only looked up from his ledgers long enough to tip his chin in greeting before scribbling away again. Her irritation swelled briefly to be ignored when she was so clearly in a bad mood.

“Bad day, Hawke?” he asked.

Oh, thank the Maker.

“Horrible day. Terrible day. I can't get Orsino off my back for two seconds before Meredith is breathing down my neck after him.”

“Sounds like a dull night.”

Hawke snorted, telling herself it was invalidated anger, when in actuality it leaned closer to humor.

“And I've got Hubert chasing after me in Hightown about his stupid Bone Pit.”

“The one you signed your name onto?”

“Well, yes, but I didn't think it would—that's not my point!”

Varric's lips twitched at that and Andraste's tits, she wanted to smile, too.

“And all of our friends have been badgering me about favors.”

She threw her weight into the chair next to his and dragged a gauntleted hand through her hair, mussing it worse than it had already been.

“Seems like the life of the Champion is more than some fancy armor.”

“I very distinctly remember not asking for this.”

“True, but Meredith did have to give you some reward for single-handedly throwing out the Qunari. And the armor does look very good on you.”

Hawke guarded herself before looking up at him. Varric flirted as fluently as he talked people out of their coin, and she couldn't let herself get flustered by it. But he was still absorbed in his ledgers. A smear of ink stained his cheek in the same place he put his thumb when he was thinking. 

She wanted him to keep talking to her. Her aggravation was still there but talking to him always eased it.

“And I think the blacksmith ripped me off with the modifications to my staff.”

“That would be unfortunate if you were a poorer woman.”

“You're not sounding very empathetic to my day, you know.”

Varric put his quill down and shifted his attention to her, easy grin in place. 

“How can I be of service?”

Hawke swallowed and shoved down the first two thoughts. 

“A pint wouldn’t hurt.”

“That I can do.”

He grinned and nudged her arm, getting up and heading to the bar. Hawke tried to ignore the buzzing under her skin where he’d touched her and failed horribly. Ever since he came to see her after the Arishok fight, she had been conflicted. Hawke didn’t like problems she couldn’t solve quickly, and there was no quick solution to realizing you were falling in love with your best friend. Well, maybe for some the solution was easy, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of letting herself be that vulnerable only to have it not work out. She’d have to leave the city, and for as much as she hated Kirkwall at times, it was home. And Varric was home.

Summoned by her thoughts, Varric returned with two pints and gave the briefest pause before setting them down on the table. Hawke realized she was compulsively picking at her cuticles and forcibly put both hands around her mug.

“Something on your mind, Hawke?”

“Just really needed this drink.”


	6. Chapter 6

“So,” Varric said. “Fighting to save the mages.”

“I’m not stupid,” Hawke said, eyes turning around the courtyard at their friends and the remaining Circle mages. “I know our chances aren’t high.”

They leaned together against a wall away from the rest, arms just barely touching.

“What do you think the chances are that we die?”

Hawke elbowed him. “This is already a cursed venture, don't make it worse.”

Varric chuckled. “Well, I think odds are in our favor. Think of everything we've already weathered. The Deep Roads?”

“I suppose. And the Bone Pit.”

“Arishok, though that was mostly you.”

“Street gangs and blood mages.”

“Bone Pit again,” Varric mused.

“More blood mages.”

“Spiders.”

“Bone pit _again_. What an awful investment.”

“Told you so.”

“Don't be fresh.”

Silence took hold again.

“This will be another to add to the list,” Varric said.

“Unless we've officially exhausted all of our luck.”

“Buzz kill.”

“Optimist.”

Silence again. Hawke felt him look at her and turned to him after he'd looked away. Even now, on the cusp of what would be another hard, unsurvivable day after a lifetime of hard, unsurvivable days, Hawke felt fine. The looming risk of death felt minor with Varric's comfortable humor at her side. She nudged him, he nudged her back, and he didn't remove his arm from where it pressed against hers. 

Hawke had a lifetime of regrets and mistakes behind her, and the full weight of death before her drove her to avoid adding another.

“We're probably going to die,” she said.

“Come on, Hawke—”

She put a hand on his arm, quieting him as she internally screamed at herself. Even more infuriating was how Varric sensed it and let her take her time.

“Varric, I—” She looked at him and couldn't continue. 

Words had never been her forte and she only needed three, but they were the heaviest words she could imagine. They could distract in the fight ahead. They could ruin this friendship if they survived. But if the odds weren’t in their favor in the first place, what else was there to lose?

She steeled herself, wishing she had the same ability to put on a mask as Varric, and felt the hand on his arm squeeze involuntarily.

The first time she opened her mouth, no sound came out. She swallowed and tried again.

“I...”

Oh, this was so much harder than she’d thought. Refocusing on him—she paused. She watched Varric watching her, the confusion, the patience, the disbelief, the...understanding. The _joy_.

“Oh, Hawke,” he whispered, more to himself. “We've never been very quick on the uptake, have we?”

He covered her hand with his. When he’d told her she was an open book years ago it had sounded like an insult, but it might have saved her from botching a confession. She leaned into him, hoping, but still unable to bite her tongue. 

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “I can't have been that slow if I got us all this far.”

“Hawke.”

“Varric.”

He reached up to brush her hair behind her ear and left it there, fingers gently pressing the nape of her neck. Hawke let herself be pulled forward and didn't dare close her eyes until she was absolutely sure this was happening.

“Maybe we are idiots," she said, lips brushing his.

Varric answered with a hum, she felt more than heard.

It was obscenely chaste. Slow, gentle, and teeth-achingly sweet. They parted and she pressed her forehead to his.

“We don't die today, Hawke,” Varric said.

“We don't die today,” she agreed.


End file.
